Mother’s love is pure gold

Marigolds bloomed in the summers of my youth. They dressed the days in orange and yellow from mid June until the cold of October’s first frost. My mother nurtured them from their first spring planting until late August when their stems became thick and strong. She kept them free of weeds. She protected them from the harsh winds of the season. She refreshed them with water at evening time before finding rest on our front porch glider. To this day, the scent of marigolds brings me back to those simpler times.

We lived in one of the Carnegie mill houses built on the lower West Side of Youngstown. It was old well before we came along in the 1950s, but it was more than strong enough to shelter the cacophony of seven children. My mother made it our home. She filled it with warmth.

She would wake us from sleep in the early morning hours to prepare us for school. Her voice gently carried the sound of our names up the wooden stairway. We would stumble from our beds and make our way down to the kitchen where breakfast was served. When we would return to our rooms, we would find our school uniforms hanging from the closet doors, always clean and freshly pressed. We would dress, gather our books and jackets, and hurry out the back door before the first school bell rang.

When it rained, we would don our yellow slickers and walk through the morning showers along the sidewalks of Lakeview Avenue, chattering to each other like ducklings out for a morning stroll. My mother watched from the kitchen window, and she would be at that window in the late afternoon to welcome us back home again. She would inquire of our day as we entered the house. Somehow she knew the answers to each of her questions before we ever responded.

We attended parochial school, but our home provided us with some of the most important lessons in life. I remember the summer evening when my father welcomed a young African-American boy to our backyard picnic table. I watched as my father fashioned a sandwich in our kitchen; poured a tall, cool glass of milk, and carried it all outside on a metal tray. He sat at that table and talked as the boy ate. Twilight fell and brought the sound of chirping crickets. My siblings and I peeked out the living room window from behind closed curtains.

Civil-Rights movement

It was in the late 1960s when the civil-rights movement fanned the embers of prejudice in our country. The boy lived with his family down by the river, just a few blocks from our home. We would frequently see him walking in the neighborhood in the summertime, shoeless and with unkempt clothes. We stood behind those curtains and jockeyed for position with each other for a better view. “What’s dad doing now?” I asked. My mother heard us whispering, entered the living room, and replied nonchalantly, “Well, your father’s giving that boy something to eat.” I turned and looked at her with a questioning expression. Her eyes caught mine and she responded, “That boy has little more than the clothes on his back, David. His skin may look different than yours, but inside he’s just the same as you or me. And, no child deserves to go to bed hungry.”

That night as I lay in bed, I thought of what I had seen and of the words my mother had spoken. I thought of that boy who lived down by the river. He was nearly my age. Sadness filled me. One small act of kindness won’t change the world, but it surely can change a child’s perspective on life. Mothers have a way of doing that. They bring you into this world and as the years pass, they introduce you to the hidden truths around you.

Nurturing hand

Marigolds bloomed in the summers of my youth. They dressed the days in orange and yellow from late June until the cold of October’s first frost. My mother cared for them with a nurturing hand. She appreciated their beauty. They gave her joy in return.

I’ll visit with her again on this Mother’s Day. We will sit in the shade beneath a tall pin oak tree, and speak of those summers of long ago. The soft wisps of her white hair will catch the cool of a backyard breeze. A worn sweater will cover her shoulders to keep her warm. In her own way, she will inquire of each of us until she is satisfied that all is well in our lives. Somehow, even now, she will know the answers to each of her questions before we ever respond. In the approach of the May evening she will remember when the laughter of children filled her days, and she will smile with contentment.

David Bobovnyik is a Youngstown area resident with fond memories of growing up on the city’s West Side, which he shares from time to time.